


Johnlock 30 Fic OTP AU challenge

by pippa21336



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, AU Challenge, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Spies, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Dialogue-Only, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Oral Sex, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, Teenagers, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippa21336/pseuds/pippa21336
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 30 Fic OTP AU challenge, originally posted here: http://horrormoans.tumblr.com/post/37318772896/challenge-on-infinite-earths-is-a-30-day<br/>RATING AND TAGS WILL BE CHANGED AS IT GOES ALONG</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fic 1: Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

> Just to note, before we begin, each fic will have a different storyline because it's a different universe (for example, to would be very difficult to do, say day 8: Futuristic and have it on the same story line as 16: Superheroes, understand? This is also why I couldn't think of any kind of good title...)

Sherlock leaned forward, pressing a small, almost timid, kiss against John’s lips before pulling away quickly, looking wary.

"It’s okay,” John murmured, a small smirk dancing over his lips as he glanced around the snow-covered courtyard, “No-one’s even looking, there’s no need to be shy.”

“I’m not being shy,” Sherlock replied defensively, scooting closer to the other fifth year and straightening out his well-kept Ravenclaw robes. “I just don’t like being watched, that’s all. All that stupidity makes me feel uncomfortable…”

John chuckled, shaking his head and giving him a squeeze.

“Liar,” he accused playfully, “You love being watched.”

“No I don’t!” Sherlock insisted, folding his arms across his chest in a show of defiance that was almost childish.

John leaned down, still smiling, and murmured in his ear, breath tickling the other boy’s skin, “You weren’t saying that when we snuck into the bathrooms on the second floor to have a wank. You were plenty keen on me watching then…” His voice was the same teasing purr John used when he had suggested said activity, and it made Sherlock blush crimson.

 

“Well, that’s different,” he stated matter-of-factly, taking a long breath to try and get rid of the embarrassment flushing through his body. John laughed again, wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock’s waist and pressing a kiss against his pink cheek.

“I love you,” he told him softly, voice bubbling with gleeful giggles as he squeezed him gently, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Love you too,” he mumbled in reply, trying and failing to look thoroughly unimpressed with having to say it again. It was so… Pedestrian. John already know how he felt; it was just stupid and a waste of time, not his ‘my brother is Minister for Magic, I must be polite to the people’ smile, but that genuine, involuntary tug of pale lips that made his eyes crinkle and John’s stomach do a little flip. The Gryffindor cleared his throat.

 

“Can I walk you to your next class?” he asked, pulling his robes tighter about him as the bell rang for the next period and he rose to his feet. Sherlock shook his head, brushing snow from his thick mop of curly hair, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Not going,” the Ravenclaw shrugged in explanation, his breath misting up in the chilly air as he reached out a gloved hand to take John’s in, “And neither are you. Come on.” He gave him a sharp tug and John came stumbling behind him, forgetting how much strength that wiry frame truly hid.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John exclaimed, trying to pull away, “I have Charms next, you’re going the wrong way!” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That because we’re not going to class, John,” he explained, his voice in that exasperated ‘why is everyone but me an idiot’ tone he usually reserved for first year and teachers he disliked, as though repeating himself for the hundredth time, “Please do try to keep up. We’re going to the Forbidden Forest instead.”

“The Forbidden Forest?” John asked, raising an eyebrow, “But, we can’t go in there, it’s… Forbidden.” Sherlock eyes rolled once more.

“You put too much faith in a name given by some oaf of a head teacher who died hundreds of years ago,” he said, lacing their fingers together as a grin spread across his lips, “And this will be much more interesting than Professor Hooper’s awful class. I doubt she’ll miss you.”

 

John licked his lips for a moment, picking up the pace so he was walking next to his boyfriend, rather than being dragged behind like some brainless puppy on a lead.

“Can I at least know why we’re going into the Forbidden Forest?” he asked, scowling and wrapping an arm protectively around Sherlock’s waist as a group of sixth year Slytherins walked past, calling out jeeps of “Puffs!” and “Dirty benders!” as they walked past.

“Filthy creatures…” Sherlock muttered under his breath, his voice flashing with sparks of bloody Poison before returning to his usual, coolly-unfazed tone as he turned back to John. “I can’t tell you. It’d ruin the surprise,” he said simply after a moment, looking very pleased with himself.

“A surprise?” John asked, grimacing slightly. “It’s not going to be like your last surprise, is it?” He still had scars from Sherlock’s last surprise; a potion of his own remedying that was meant to give the user satisfying orgasms. Needless to say (coupled with the massive green stain on his bedclothes and the trip to the hospital wing to treat the large, painful, red boils that had bubbled up along his skin) it made for the worst Valentine’s Day ever.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment.

“We’ll see how it goes…”

 

A short walk through the fluttering snow and two more shouts of abuse later (this time from two first year Gryffindors who didn’t seem to have any idea they were talking to the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team until the blond had dealt each boy a clip around the eat and told them to promptly fuck off) the two boys arrived at the edge of the forest. John paused, peering into the darkness wearily.

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at the other. Sherlock nodded, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, rolling his eyes as he gave him another encouraging tug, “I promise.”

 

The darkness was suffocating as they stepping into its damp arms. It seemed to curl up around them, wrapping about their limbs and forcing its way up their nostrils and behind their eyes until everything was plunged into dull shadow. The snow hadn’t reached the ground under the thick canopy of leaves and gnarled, twisted branches, but the ground was still sopping wet, med sticking to the soles of their shoes and giving off a rich, earthy scent that wasn’t quite pleasant, but wasn’t entirely disgusting either; just pure and rich and all encompassing. A light chill drifted, feather light, past them and John shuddered, wrapping his arms tighter around Sherlock. The taller boy just patted his hand gently and gave him another reassuring smile.

 

A moment or so later, the dense cover about their heads began to peter out and soft, cloud-coloured light drifted down, scattering on the ground like a fine mist that snaked its way over the wet leaves underfoot and between the broken fragments of twigs and branches which stuck up like dirty, ghostly fingers from the mud.

“Come on,” Sherlock’s voice was hushed but excited as he reached down to grab John’s hand again, his enthusiasm sparking like electricity from himself to John where their skin touched, making a giddy smile breath out across the older boy’s lips as he followed Sherlock into the light-filled clearing.

 

And was stopped dead in his tracks.

 

The beast was magnificent, the grey feathers that covered its muscular body so dark they were almost as black as its piercing eyes, though they faded down to near pure-white as they grew closer to its tail which hung down almost to the ground, twitching lazily behind its horse-like hooves and tucked away on either side of its body John could see its enormous wings. Each one was easily ten feet in length and attached to the torso by thick, powerful-looking muscles. They were tremendous and earth-shattering, as though hurricanes feared their tips and tornadoes shied away from their silky feather in the same way mice and ferrets would scurry away in terror from the beast’s great, bone-crushing beak.

 

John was stood, quite stupefied, in front of a hippogriff. A real-life hippogriff.

 

He tugged Sherlock back in a flurry of panic, veins humming with excitement as he flung an arm out across the other's path, as if to shield him from the magnificent creature, his free hand fumbling inside his robes to try and find his wand, but the eight inches Cedar and Unicorn Hair that usually came straight to hand when he needed slipped from his excited fingers. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and pushed past.

“Stay back, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, “He’s dangerous!”

“No he isn’t,” Sherlock replied, ducking under the other boy’s outstretched arm with an exasperated shake of his head, his own hand outstretched for the beast to nuzzle into contently as he got closer, “Look, John, he’s as tame as a house cat, I swear. Come on, you don’t even need to bow to him.” He held his free hand back for John to take and slowly, being careful not to move too noisily or too quickly as not to startle the winged thing, the other boy’s ever so slightly clammy fingers wrapped around the younger boy’s, only pulling away again when Sherlock tried to get him to touch the soft feathers on the hippogriff’s head. Sherlock simply scowled at his over-cautiousness and pulled his hand up sharply again, placing in the soft feathers at its neck.

 

“Sherlock, where did you… Where did you find him?” John asked in awed confusion, his eyes lighting up with excitement as his fingers coursed through the downy feathers in front of him. Sherlock shrugged.

“He was in the forest,” he replied, “Just wandering around on his own, looking hungry, so I caught him a rabbit in a trap that I built and he seems to have grown for of me since. I was saving him, I swear.” John looked simply astonished.

“When?” he asked in bemusement, fingers trailing through the soft, puffy fur at his neck, like that of small baby chicken. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well,” Sherlock shrugged, rubbing behind the hippogriff’s ears, “I wanted to make sure it was safe, I couldn’t have you getting hurt of course, so I waited the full six months-”

“Six months?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, “It was for your own safety. You should be thanking me really. I came down every few days to make sure he had enough food and water, and then I made a nice stock for over the holidays. He’s really clever; I taught him how to reset the traps I made and everything.” He puffed his chest out slightly, looking very proud of himself.

 

There was a long, quiet pause, the only sounds being the scurrying of small animals across the woodland floor and bird tweeting solemnly in the dark, gnarled branches of the lifeless trees before John finally said, “So… Can we ride him?”

“Do you want to?“ Sherlock replied, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. “I thought the big hippogwiff was too scawey for the wittle cowardly lion.” He pouted childishly, a grin threatening to overspill his lips and seep into his features.

“I’m not cowardly,” John snapped in reply, strutting confidently over to the beast’s side, “I’m a Gryffindor. If anyone here is a coward, it should be you.”

Sherlock feigned hurt and gave him a playful push which was returned back and forth a few times until it turned into a long, lingering kiss before he pulled away.

“Come on,” he instructed, tugging his smart outer robes off to reveal his messy uniform underneath, placing them haphazardly on the branch of a tree before hoisting himself up and over onto the beast’s back, holding out a hand for John to take. “Up you get.”

John paused for a moment, studying the giant hippogriff before nodding, shedding his own robes and grabbing Sherlock’s hand to pull himself up onto the beast’s back, arms wrapped firmly around the other boy’s narrow hips as though for dear life. Sherlock grinned, lacing his fingers through the soft feathers between the hippogriff’s shoulders as he gave him a small squeeze with his knees.

 

The beast reared up, its bird-like talons kicking at the frost air before landing with a thump against the ground, its claws pummelling into the soft ground as it began to run, leaving large gashes in the dirt. It sped across the forest floor like a fighter jet, its wings unfurling slowly before, with one huge thump, they were lifted into the air, wind rushing past them at what felt like the speed of sound. John’s involuntary scream of joy and terror, however, still managed to reach Sherlock’s ears and he smiled, the painfully cold air making his eyes water as the light snow he’d forgotten was falling flurried about his face like hundreds of miniature snow-storms as they broke into the open air, pulling up to swoop across the treetops. For a long while they were close enough to touch the spiked tips of the conifers and the gnarled branches of the ancient oaks as they meandered on the breeze like a boat on a river, rising higher and higher as they went.

“Can’t they see us?” John called over the whistling wind, voice breathless as he took in the vast, sprawling scene of snow-capped woodland below them.

"From the castle?" Sherlock asking, sounding incredulous, "Of course not, not with those half-wit teachers in charge. You really must stop worrying, John, I'm not a complete idiot."

"I'm not!" John exclaimed, pulling himself closer to the other, "I'm just saying that-"

He was cut off, words being lost on the wind as Sherlock pushed them down into a sudden vertical dive, 90° straight down at a speed that seemed to defy all possibilities. What was almost even more impossible was the way they pulled up at a second's notice, their toes mere inches away from the tops of the trees as they swooped away, barely a pine needle being disturbed by their flight.

 

John let out a cry of, "Brilliant!" and chuckled in pure, joyous bliss against Sherlock's ear as they finally slowed, dropping back down between the trees and landing with surprising softness on the lightly snow-dusted ground, the hippogriff's footprints trailing behind like stains of ink on a crisp, white canvas paper. Only when they stopped did John realize just how hard his heart was pumping and how deep the chill had set into his bones, despite how fast his heart was beating and the deep flush that was set into his cheeks. He barely noticed as Sherlock slipped down from behind him a few moments later until he was being guided on still unsteady feet, off of the beast's back, only to find himself pressing the other boy against a tree a few moments later, his lips crushing against the Ravenclaw's with a giddy desperation that would have been uncomfortable if it hadn't been so endearing Sherlock turned them around slowly, bracing a hand against the moss-stained bark of the pine behind them as he settled John more carefully against it, his tongue slowly coaxing open the other's already eager lips. The kissed for several long minutes, each moment punctuated with a small gasp of breath at the flick of a tongue or a shiver that danced down the spine as hands wandered across firm shoulders, narrow hips and, finally, under warm jumpers, before Sherlock finally pulled away.

 

"John," he murmured, reaching down to grab the Gryffindor's hands through the fabric of his thin jumper and itchy school shirt, "If you're planning to grope me with those freezing hands, you may as well think again."

John's flickered down to where his fingers had disappeared, as though he hand no idea how they had gotten there, before he let out a soft chuckle, retracting his hands from under Sherlock's top to let them settle softly at his waist instead as he leaned up to press a brief kiss against the tip of his nose.

"Come on," he said, voice teasingly excited as he gave the other boy's skinny waist a squeeze, "If we go now, the boy's bathroom on the second floor might be empty..."

Sherlock smiled fondly, shaking his head.

"You come up with the most brilliant ideas," he grinned, grabbing their robes from their impromptu hanger and wrapping John's tightly about his shoulders before slipping his hand down to find his boyfriend's, lacing their fingers together delicately.

 

As they turned to leave there was a small nudging at his shoulder and Sherlock turned, seeing his hippogriff stood behind him, its head lowered in a small bow. Sherlock dropped John's hand to bow in return, reaching up to pet the soft tufts of fur on its head. John smiled as he watched the exchange, grabbing Sherlock's free hand and giving him a small tug.

"Come on," he said softly and Sherlock nodded, waving a little to the hippogriff - who let out a small whine in return - before turning away, grabbing John's hand with a bit more enthusiasm to tug him along, leaving the other boy trailing behind him with a large grin on his face, the promise of getting up to as many naughty (and probably extremely inappropriate) things as they could manage in the next half an hour with the most gorgeous fifth year in all of Hogwarts history leaving him feeling perfectly content.


	2. Fic 2: Zombies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long to get up, I've been super busy. I'll explain at the bottom.  
> Also, for this, if you've read The Host by Stephanie Meyers (it's surprisingly good) think that.

  
John cocked his gun quietly; his breathing puffing heavily into the icy air as he peered about the corner of the deserted building, body pressed flat against the crumbling wreck of what had once been the south wall of the London building he was hidden in. Sunlight streamed in through the large cracks in the slowly collapsing plaster and bare bricks of the ceiling, and for a moment, John were sure he’d seen some movement out of the corner of his eye.  
Suddenly, a dark shape flashed across his vision and five bullets chased the shadow as it ran, finding themselves embedded in the far wall before John pulled back.  
“Shit…” he muttered, pressing himself back against the rough brickwork, panting softly from panic and the sudden shot of adrenaline that shuddered down his spine. Taking a long breath to steady his grip, he peered back around the corner, his gun flying up instinctively when found himself face to face with-  
  
Oh…  
Oh god, no…  
I couldn’t be…  
It wasn’t…  
  
“S-Sherlock?”  
John’s voice broke with a nervous squeak as he took in the face in front of him; bright, unmistakable eyes still starkly lit in the shadow under his hood.  
“J-John?” The detective’s own voice cracked as his own gun lowered, eyes wide with disbelief as he stumbled back a step or two, tugging down his hood. “I can’t…” he ran a hand through his matted hair, shaking his head, “I thought you got taken!”  
“I thought you did!” John replied, stammering wordlessly for a moment before tugging Sherlock into a hard hug, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders, fingers gripping so hard into his jumper it was as though he planned to never let go.  
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “I thought I’d never see you again.”  
  
They kept like that for a long few moments, John’s chin on his shoulder, Sherlock’s arms about his waist, before the doctor moved to bury his nose in the other’s neck, blinking away bleary tears as he murmured, “Three years,” voice crackling with a rough sob, “I thought you were dead, Sherlock, I…”  
Sherlock’s arms, strong and sure as ever, squeezed him about the waist and he turned, kissing the other’s temple softly.  
“So did I,” he admitted quietly, eyes squeezing closed as he let out a long breath, “I thought you were gone, that I’d never see you and-” He stopped dead.  
“Hamish,” his voice was barely as whisper as he pulled John away to look him in the eye, “Tell me, he’s with you, John. Please.”  
John sniffed, reaching up to wipe the moisture from his eyes with the edge of his cuff as he nodded. “We’ve got him,” he said softly, “Back at base. Our little boy, Sherlock, he’s-”  
He was cut off sharply as Sherlock lips met his in a kiss so hot and fast it was blinding, there for once scorching second, gone the next.  
“Show me,” the detective instructed, giving him a small squeeze. “There’s a hive of Infected headed this way, we’ve been tracking them for days and it’s almost sunset. We have to go _now_.”  
  
John barely paused for a beat before nodding, wiping his bleary eyes once more and grabbing his bag from the floor.  
“This way,” he said, his entire body sliding seamlessly into military mode as he slung the rucksack over his shoulder, “Hurry up.”  
Sherlock followed without a word.  
  
***  
  
 _*Tap, tap, tap, tap*_  
*Tap, tap*  
*Tap, tap, tap, tap*  
  
John’s knuckles knocked against the thick metal of the door ten times, each sound reverberating through the small, cramped space. There was a short, quiet pause then the tell-tale scrapes of bolts and chains being undone could be heard and the three inches of steel creaked slowly open.  
“Captain.”  
A slim blond man, young enough to still be covered in spots, saluted John as he opened the door.  
“Richard,” John replied with a curt nod, saluting in return as he began to make his way into the bunker, tugging Sherlock behind him.  
“Oi, Cap?” Richard said suddenly, putting a hand out against Sherlock’s chest, pushing him back as he looked him up and down with a wary expression. “Who’s this? I don’t bloody recognise him…” John scowled, lips turning in what was almost a snarl.  
“He’s my _husband_ ,” he replied, forcing his voice to stay steady, tone just dancing above a growl. The younger man’s, as well as his hand, dropped and he stammered for a moment.  
“Jesus, sorry,” he said, stepping out of the way quickly, “I did know… I can’t believe… You’re _him_?”  
“Apparently so…” Sherlock replied, turning his nose up for a moment before his ear was caught by a familiar voice.  
  
“Hey, Dad, you’ll never guess what! Mickey was showing me how to make-”  
  
There was a long moment of what felt like crushing silence before slowly, it seemed to the young boy, each of the bullets in his hand hit the floor, one by one, the sound of metal against metal a soft tinkle against the suffocating silence that filled the room, broken after what felt like an eternity by the boy’s quiet stammer.  
“F-Father?” he breathed, as though he didn’t dare say the word, lest the man before him disappear in a puff of smoke.  
“Hamish…” The reply was almost a happy sigh as it fell from Sherlock’s lips, a small huff punctuating its end as Hamish’s warm body hit his chest, arms wrapping tight about his midsection as sobs rocked through his chest.  
  
“I didn’t think…” he breathed, voice shaking to a stop as Sherlock hushed him, running his hands through his thick curls and kissing his forehead.  
“It’s alright,” he said softly, “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”  
Hamish nodded but stayed where he was, fingers balled up in the fabric of his father’s tattered hoodie so tight his knuckles were bright white, until his tears ran dry and his breathing finally levelled. He stepped away slowly, prying his hands open and flexing out his stiff fingers, glancing back up as Sherlock’s hands settled on either of his shoulders.  
“Hamish,” he said softly, a rare but sincere smile tugging at his features, “I…” For a long moment he was lost for words and his smile faltered. “I will _never_ leave you again,” he settled on finally, “Never, understand?”  
Hamish nodded quietly; wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.  
“Good boy,” Sherlock smiled again, kissing his forehead once more before straightening up to give him a pat on the shoulder. “Now, your dad and I have some things we need to sort out, but you can tell me what you’ve been up to later, alright?”  
"Promise?"  
"I promise."  
Hamish smiled slightly, nodding again.  
“Do whatever you want," he said, "Just, you know, stay off of my bed, alright?” His grin widened as he ran off further down the tunnel that lead to the rest of the bunker, footsteps echoing behind him.  
  
Sherlock smiled after him for a long moment before turning back to John, stretching out a hand for the doctor to take. John did so tentatively, as though he were also wary about making Sherlock disappear if he moved too suddenly.  
“Come on,” he said, giving the detective a small tug once he was sure he was definitely there. "I think there's someone else who'll want to see you."  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but followed him quietly nonetheless. As they walked, the patchwork sheets of reinforced steel that lined the walls gave way to bare stone and thick mud, the sound of the footsteps increasing in a crescendo until the corridor opened out into a large, open space.  
The room before them was filled with soft sunlight which streamed in through large, heavy-looking metal grates in the ceiling, and a small stream of icy water trickled through the centre, over which a bridge of rough wooden planks stretched. At the far end of the room, on the other side of the bridge, were two more tunnel entrances from which various sounds were echoing, distorted calls barely loud enough to argue about the wordless babbling of the water.  
  
John gave Sherlock another small tug, nodding towards a wide crack that split the rock face on their side of the river. From what Sherlock could see, the walls of this corridor were also covered in thick steel plates, with a large wooden sign reading 'Beta' hanging over the entrance.  
"Office is this way," the doctor directed, "Come on."  
Again, Sherlock followed without complaint, slipping into the tight space with ease, following the soft glow of light that Sherlock recognised as belonging to a candle. Multiple candles, in fact, he discovered as he stopped, glancing over John's shoulder into the office-like room in front of him, pausing for a moment of he caught sight of-  
  
" _Jesus Christ._ "  
  
The voice that Sherlock immediately recognised as that of former Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was full of surprise as his eyes flickered from John's face to the one hidden in the shadows behind.  
"Sherlock Holmes..." he muttered, standing up with a creak of his ancient-looking office chair, "Where the bloody hell have you been? I thought we'd lost you for sure..."  
Sherlock shook his head, a small smile dancing across his lips. "Mycroft."  
"Mycroft?" Greg cocked his head to one side, looking confused.  
Sherlock nodded.  
"He's alive," he said then rolled his eyes. "But of course, he would be. It's Mycroft. He could survive with a stick and a pair of Primark boxers." He shook his head and Greg smiled.  
"Yeah, that sounds like Mycroft..." he agreed, an absent smile flickering across his lips before he shook his head, “Where are you fellas anyway? We've been searching the whole of bloody London for survivors."  
"Underground," Sherlock explained, slipping past John to stand in front of the desk, pointing to the large map of London that had been roughly stuck up on the rock wall. His finger indicated to a small section of Thames, only a few miles away from where they stood.  
"There's a section of disused sewer pipes," he explained, "Mycroft had it sealed off and cleaned out a few years before the Infection, just in case. It's almost impossible to see from the outside and there are only fifteen of us down there, you'd hardly notice anyone leaving. I assume you have more."  
Behind him, John nodded. "Twenty-two," he said as Sherlock turned to look at him, noting the way his hands were clasped behind his back in the same military-like position he'd familiarize himself with once again over the past few months. "Well, twenty-three if you're staying..."  
  
Sherlock's lips curled up into a slight smile of endearment and he reached out a hand to squeeze John's arm. "Of course," he said softly, letting his tone soften for a moment before he turned back to Greg. "Mycroft will obviously want to know about you lot first, get a scope on the numbers, resources etcetera. I should probably be getting back as soon as possible..."  
Greg shook his head. "Not tonight, mate," he said, glancing at his watch, "Curfew round here's nine o'clock. It's too dangerous to be out there in the dark."  
Sherlock let out a sigh. "I know a safe route back-" he began to argue, but Greg shook his head defiantly.  
"My house, my rules," he stated simply, sitting back down in his chair with another shrill creak. "Go, I don't know, spend some time together. That kid of your, he's a good lad, by he's missed his Dad. He needs some bonding time, alright?"  
Sherlock nodded, the slight ghost of a smile tugging at his dry lips at the memory of Greg scolding him the first time he had tried to bring Hamish to a crime scene only a few weeks after they had adopted the five year old, says that murder investigations didn't count as an appropriate place for 'father/son bonding.'  
"I'll make sure I do that," he nodded and Greg smiled.  
"It's good to see you again, mate," he said, leaning back in his seat. "I've got a feeling things'll be a lot better down here with you around. Minding you keep yourself out of trouble." He cocked an eyebrow and Sherlock grinned.  
"Of course, Detective Inspector," he said, turning when he felt John's hand slip into his own.  
"Come on," he doctor said softly, giving him a small tug.  
  
Sherlock followed him, almost obediently, back into the room with the stream, then across the bridge, slipping into the opening on the left without a moment's hesitation. This tunnel didn't open up as soon as the others had, the narrow corridor, which was lit by a mixture of candles in jars and home-made wind-up torches that were hung from sharp outcrops in the rock face and barely lit the floor up just enough that Sherlock didn't stumble on the craggy floor, seeming to stretch on forever. When the passage did finally widen, he could see cracks like the one leading to Greg's makeshift office beginning scar the walls, some covered by bed sheets, others by cardboard and a few even by real wooden doors. At the very end of the hall the walls narrowed into one final crack which in turn opening up into a tiny room with two doors, one marked with name Sherlock didn't recognize, the other - much to Sherlock's joy - marked with the name 'Holmes-Watson.' John tugged their door open, leading Sherlock inside with an air of something akin to embarrassment.  
  
The room was only small, with a mattresses pressed up against either wall and an old IKEA bookcase crammed full of tatty books (some of which appeared to be school books, others Sherlock recognized from their collection at home) against the back wall. Despite its size it was cosy and, with a somehow salvaged rug from Baker Street spread across the floor, it almost reminded Sherlock of home.  
"We raided the place," John said stiffly, as though he had sensed Sherlock's unasked question, "Everyone did. As soon as it was reasonably safe, we got whatever we could from our houses and shared it around a bit." He pointed to the lowest shelf. "Saved your skull," he grinned and Sherlock smiled in reply, regarding the thing as you would an old acquaintance.  
  
"I missed you," he said quietly after a moment. John's reply was wistful as he reached down to lace their fingers together.  
"So did I. Hamish too."  
Sherlock nodded. "He's grown up so much..."  
"You have no idea," John chuckled, looking up at his lover. "He's a proper young man now. Got a bloody girlfriend and everything..."  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and John smiled, shaking his head.  
"I've given her the stamp of approval, don't worry," he said. "She's a computer whiz, absolute bloody genius. They're like two peas in a pod."  
Sherlock smiled, leaning down to kiss him briefly. "I'm glad," he said. "And I'm glad to have you back as well."  
John reached up, looping his arms around Sherlock's neck.  
"You never lost me."  
"Really?"  
"Not for a minute."  
  
His lips pressed [back up](http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rjc5bd) against Sherlock's, a content sigh escaping his mouth as he slipped back into the familiar sensation of soft kissing. Gradually, however, Sherlock's tongue coaxed open the doctor's mouth and dipped into the warm space of his mouth, turning the sigh into a groan as their tongues met in a warm, slick press of muscle against muscle and long, pale fingers crept their way down that back of jeans. Shorter, more tanned digits slipped into Sherlock's matted curls. Soon, their breathing had picked up and John gasped as he was pressed hard into the sharp rock of the wall, Sherlock's kiss growing more and more frantic as his fingers squeezed hard at the flesh in his hands, making his lover groan again.  
  
"S-Sherlock," the doctor gasped, trying to pull away, "I... No... No, stop."  
Sherlock froze, looking confused as he pulled away, hands dropping to his sides.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't meant to upset-"  
He was cut off by another kiss, albeit one more chaste than passionate.  
"I want to get my clothes off first," John smiled, patting his cheek as he began undoing his jeans. Sherlock watched him for a moment before starting to tug of his own clothes, pulling his tattered grey hoodie over his head along with his shirt and soon his jeans.  
  
The detective was much leaner than John remembered him, the sharp edges of bones sticking out against his skin replaced by the curve of muscle and creamy skin. John's torso on the other hand, which Sherlock noted with delight was now completely bare, had been toned and defined by three years of manual labour and was a gorgeous expanse of perfect, smooth skin interrupted by only three things; his navel, his nipples and a thin chain, from which hung a set of army-issue dog tags and a wedding ring. John's wedding ring to be exact.  
  
"Y-You kept it?" Sherlock asked, voice breaking slightly in disbelief.  
"Of course I did," John replied, smiling slightly as he reached out to take Sherlock's hand once more, "You're my husband, Sherlock, until the day I die."  
Sherlock tried to smile, but his lips kept faltering.  
"I left mine," he said, voice quiet, "It's safe, in a box by my bed, but... I left it."  
"Don't feel bed, love," John soothed, stretching up to stroke his cheek.  
"I-I look at it every night," Sherlock insisted, "And I wear it when I'm not outside, and-"  
His babbling was cut off by a crushing of lips against his own and a tugging of hands that pulled him towards the [mattress](http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rjc5bd) on the floor, settling him down before pushing him back.  
  
"John..." he said breathlessly as the doctor's lips began to move down his neck, biting and sucking harsh mark into the skin just about his collarbone, making his entire body arch up off of the make-shift bed.  
"Mine," John breathed, kissing back up the middle of the detective's chest, over his sternum and around his Adam's Apple too return to his lips, kissing him deeply.  
"Yours," Sherlock agreed against his lips, lifting his hips as John began to pull his pants down, allowing his already aching cock to spring free. His hardness bumped against the bulge in the other man's boxers, making them both moan softly against each other's lips, each swallowing down the other's sounds until Sherlock's kisses began to move up John's jaw, tongue teasing behind his ear.  
  
"Let me see yours," he murmured as his fingers, shaky with excitement and lack of practice, slipped into the waistband of John's pants and tugged them down his legs before shifting to wrap around his prick. In a rush of bliss, John's eyes flickered closed and he nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, a long moan of, “ _Jesus_..." slipping down from between his lips and rolling across the detective's skin like thick fog.  
"Fuck..." he muttered as Sherlock's hand began to move, giving him one slow tug. Pleasure sparked through John like fireworks and he bucked hard, dipping down to lave his tongue over his lover's skin as he let out another long groan of ecstasy.  
  
Sherlock's turn to cry out came as John continued kissing down his chest and found his nipple, the tip of his tongue flicking across the tight skin to make the detective writhe in pleasure. Sherlock's hand clenched about his slowly dripping cock and John whined throatily again as he began to suck the detective's nipple slowly.  
"Wait..." Sherlock gasped, one hand slipping down to tangle in John's short hair, pulling him away from his chest as the other aligned both their cocks, giving them one long pull, waves of pleasure ripping across their sweat-shining skin. John, impatient as ever to take the lead, quickly pushed Sherlock's pale hand away, replacing it with his own.  
"I'm doing it," he all but growled, moving up to stamp his neck with more stark marks, muffling his moans as he began to thrust shallowly into the tightness of his own fist, dog tags slapping with a tinkle against his chest. Blissfully, Sherlock moaned as his fingers tightened in the doctor's hair and he thrust back in reply against the otherma movements. Soon, they had set a steady, pleasurable rhythm; the first pushing into the tightness to make the other moan, before the favour was returned, almost languidly in the beginning, but soon with more gusto. Curses, moans and other profanities rose from their chests until the room was dripping with sweat and sex, the creaking of the mattress springs a steady beat in the background of it all, keeping their lovemaking at a frantic, desperate pace until-  
  
"Ah!"  
Sherlock's head threw back hard against the pillows as tightness coiled in his stomach, hands scrabbling to find purchase on John's back, nails leaving shocking red lines across his tanned skin.  
"Come for me," the doctor purred, thrusting harder against him. "Come on..."  
Sherlock was quiet for only a moment longer before he began to cry out in desperation, his entire body arching as he spilled across John's hand, muscles shaking and twitching with him orgasm. He barely got a moment to catch his breath before John's lips were pressed against his, filling his mouth with the taste of a moan as the doctor followed him into blinding pleasure.  
  
For a long moment, both men seemed to freeze. hearts not beating, lungs not breathing, eyes not blinking, before John's muscles gave out and he collapsed against the other's chest, panting heavily against his sweat-covered skin.  
"Oh, god..." he groaned, reaching a hand up to rub dripping sweat out of his eye.  
"Indeed..." Sherlock agreed, equally as breathless. They both fell into silence for a long moment, before John began to chuckle, Sherlock following suit after a moment as the doctor shifted to nuzzle up under his arm, his own limbs wrapping tightly around Sherlock, pulling him close.  
"That was better than I remembered," he said.  
"Just wait until we find some lubricant," Sherlock promised, a grin hinting at his lips as he wrapped his arm over John's shoulders, the other coming up to rest behind his bed as he looked up at the unfamiliar expanse of ceiling above him. John smiled, kissing his chest softly as he chuckled under his breath for a moment before trailing off.  
  
"Where did you go?" he asked after a long moment, voice barely a whisper. "The day the Infection began, they started evacuating people. We were going to go but I... I waited for you. I waited and you never showed up." He could still remember holding Hamish close as he looked into the streets below 221B, watching as people either ran for their lives or were dragged away by the Infected. It was almost impossible to know who had the Infection in the beginning, when it was only the eyes, that dead, sickly yellowing of the irises that you could barely notice before it was already too late. He had hushed the young boy by his side at the time, telling him it was all going to be okay. Of course, Hamish wasn't stupid. He knew it was not okay. He knew it would never be okay again.  
  
"Mycroft lied to me."  
Sherlock's reply was so quiet, John would have missed it had it not been for the feeling of the syllables rumbling through his chest.  
"He said you were safe," he elaborated after a moment, "That you'd been evacuated out and that he had seen your names on the lists but..." He shook his head. "I didn't believe him. Not for a minute. I thought... This entire time, I thought you were dead, John. I thought you were gone and that I'd never see you again, so I stayed with him to fight the Infection from the inside, to find a cure. I... I thought I could help you, or avenge you at least, but didn't find anything. Just more cast-outs, like us..." He shook his head again, blinking slightly as he buried his nose in the John hair, taking a long draw of his scent and pulling him closer.  
John was quiet for a long moment, digesting the information before whispering, "I'm sorry..." and taking a long breath.  
"I thought you were dead too," he said, voice shaky as he squeezed his eyes closed. "I helped with the evacuation screening, just picking out the unlucky buggers with the start of the Infection, you know? I was only going to stay until I found you, but..." He sighed. "We got left behind in the rush of the last train. I was going to let Hamish go, to stay with Harry or something, but..." He screwed his eyes tighter shut. "I _should_ have let him bloody go..."  
He kicked out at the edge of the mattress in a fit of rage, hiding his face in Sherlock's chest as he growled in fury.  
"What the hell kind of Dad keeps his son in a city run by the fucking walking dead?" he asked rhetorically, voice cracking slightly. "I thought it was too dangerous for him to go on the train on his own, and now he's smelting bloody bullets in his spare time... What the fuck is that about, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock was quiet, thinking for a moment before leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.  
"You kept him safe," he said softly, "That's all that matters now. How... How did you find Lestrade? How did you find this place?"  
John shrugged, words muffled as he kept his face hidden.  
"Went down to Scotland Yard," he mumbled, "Greg was there still. Bloody traitors he left him too." Finally pulling away from Sherlock's chest, he glanced up as though he could see the surface through the ceiling.  
"We're under it right now, the Yard," he explained after a moment of tracing the cracks with his gaze, "This whole place. It's not too big, just the dorms, the rec, the baths and the farm. We have to grow our own food, you know. You couldn't tell were here from the outside. You couldn't tell it was bloody Scotland Yard either. The whole place is a wreck..."  
He let out a long sigh; the memories of falling asleep at Greg's desk after days with less that five hours sleep, the smell of the awful instant coffee in the staff canteen and hurried shags in storage cupboards that were probably more to shut him up that to show any kind of affection now seeming almost fond.  
  
"I love you."  
  
The words cut through the silence too smoothly to shatter it but to fast to leave it in two perfect pieces.  
"Pardon?"  
"I said, I love you." The detective looked almost irritated at having to repeat the words. John was quiet for a long moment, then nodded.  
"Good," he replied simply.  
"Good?" Sherlock looked offended now, "Is that all?"  
John lifted a still sticky finger to press against his husband's lips.  
"Good, because I love you too."  
"I see... Good."  
John chuckled, leaning up to kiss him again.  
  
"I think we should have a bath," he said after a moment, glancing down between them both. "We couldn't have Hamish walking in on us looking this..."  
"Thoroughly well-fucked?" Sherlock suggested with a slight grin.  
"Exactly," John chuckled, beginning to get up and throw his dirty clothes back on. "We have to preserve _some_ of his innocence. Even if he has been... _Seeing_ with his girlfriend of the best part of the month."  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at what was obviously implied as he slipped back into his jeans.  
"You're not the only one who can deduce stuff, you know," John shrugged, pushing up on his tiptoes to kiss him chastely.  
"Now, come on, bath and then bed. I think there's some people who'll want to meet you in the morning."  
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "I seem to be some sort of a local celebrity," he noted, smiling slightly. John rolled his eyes.  
"When haven't you been?" he asked, shaking his head as he slipped back through the doorway.  
Sherlock smiled after him for a minute, letting out a sigh before following him faithfully, the same way he always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies. I've decided to make a few changes around here as well.  
> Basically, this is now just going to be a 30 fic challenge, not a 30 day challenge, meaning each one will take me (hopefully) 5-7 days to finish, but will be a reasonable length and really good.  
> Also, FIRST EVER FIC RATED HIGHER THAN T EVER! *Parties on my own*  
> Tags etc. will be changed (sorry if the smut was awful...)


	3. Fic 3: Medieval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say John is about 20 for this and Sherlock is 18 simply because I don't want them to actually be underage. Also, homosexuality as well as most sex positions that didn't involve baby making or men being on top (e.g anal, oral, anything that wasn't really missionary) could get you sent to prison on killed. Oh middle ages...

Soft sunlight streamed through the open stable door and onto the body of the young stable-hand who was working laboriously inside. He wiped his brow with a sigh before returning to trying desperately to patch up a fine-haired horse brush that was growing rotten and had split down the middle, completely unaware that leaning against the doorframe, looking very pleased with himself, stood the saddle-maker’s son, Sherlock Holmes.

After a long moment of watching sweat dripping down the younger boy’s bare back, Sherlock crept forward across the uneven cobbles, pausing for a moment before reaching down to squeeze the other’s rear.

 

John jumped with a yelp, dropping the rotten brush in his hand and letting it clatter to the ground.

“Who…” he gasped as he turned around, stopping when he saw the other boy. “Oh, Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

Sherlock grinned, sticking his hands into his pockets.

“My Father’s back from the market,” he said, “With the leather and stuff for the Lord’s new saddle. I was meant to come and tell your Dad, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

John nodded, reaching down to pick the rotten brush back up, sighing as he tried to brush the muck out of its bristles one last time before resigning it to the bucket of scrap wood to be burned later.

“Da’s down in the bottom field,” he explained, turning back to Sherlock, “Collecting straw for the stalls I think; the stuff up here’s spoiling in the heat.” He reached down, grabbing his discarded tunic from the floor to mop his sweaty brow.

“So, he won’t be back for a fair bit then?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Probably not,” John shrugged, “Not for a few hours at least…”

Sherlock’s smile widened and he cocked his head to one side.

“Do you fancy having a bit of fun?” he asked in a low voice, looking around conspiratorially.

John frowned for a moment before leaning forward, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well… What kind of fun?”

 

“This kind of fun,” Sherlock replied, leaning forward to press a kiss against the other’s lips, hands moving down to settle on his hips as his tongue tried to worm its way into John’s mouth, causing the other boy to gasp excitedly.

“Sherlock!” he chuckled, pushing the other boy away as his cheeks began to flush crimson, “We can’t do that in here. What if someone saw?”

“I’ll close the door then,” Sherlock replied, lips moving to tease the skin at his friend’s neck for a moment before pulling back, “But you’ve got to drop your breaches.” John paused for a beat.

“Drop my breeches?” he stammered, eyes wide in surprise, “Why do you want me to drop my breeches?”

Sherlock sighed, kicking the stable door closed. “I’m going to show you, aren’t I?” he said, rolling his eyes, “You trust me, don’t you?”

John paused for a moment longer before nodding, undoing the drawstring at the front of his trousers and letting them drop to the floor.

“Good. Now, open your legs,” Sherlock instructed, pushing him down to sit on the top of a upturned bucket before moving to kneel in front of him, pulling his legs apart.

 

“W-What are you doing?” John asked, looking almost horrified as he tried to press his legs back together again. “You’re not going to put me in your mouth, are you?”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock grinned, coaxing his legs open again, “It’s supposed to be fun. I saw one of the girls doing it in the whore house.”

“You’re not meant to be in the whore house!” John exclaimed, covering his privates with his hand, “ _We’re_ not even meant to be kissing. You can go to prison if you put me in your mouth.”

“No-one’s going to see,” Sherlock soothed him, leaning up to kiss him softly, “Look, if you don’t like it, I’ll stop. Alright?”

John worried his bottom lip nervously for a moment before nodding.

“Fine,” he muttered, “But if somebody catches us, _you’re_ going to prison for… For being sinful.”

Sherlock laughed, kissing him again.

“Since when do _you_ care about being sinful?” he teased. “Now, shut up and let me do it.”

 

John nodded, biting his bottom lip as he let his legs fall open again, bracing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Just… Be careful,” he said, closing his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s head dip down, kissing down his abdomen until his breath was ghosting across the sensitive skin of his prick.

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured before leaning down, tongue flicking gently across the head. John gasped, hips suddenly bucking.

“O-Oh…” he groaned, eyelids fluttering, “Ah, Sherlock, I…”

“Shush!” Sherlock hushed him sharply, giving him a small smack on the thigh. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry…” John mumbled, fingers moving to grip tightly into the other’s hair as the older boy leaned down further, slipping the head of his cock into his mouth, suckling just hard enough to force a gurgle of surprise and pleasure out of John’s throat.

Taking this as an encouraging sign, Sherlock slowly worked more of him into his mouth until his tip was touching the back of his mouth, making him gag and pull away, coughing heavily.

 

“Did I hurt you?” John asked, reaching down to tilt Sherlock’s head up, kissing his face desperately.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, shaking him off, “Let me do it again.”

He pushed John’s hands away and took him back into his mouth once more, this time relaxing his throat enough to let him slip down smoothly, stopping only when John’s thick curls were tickling his nose and his forehead was pressed against the other’s abdomen. John let out another groan of pleasure, trying not to buck up into the wet heat enveloping his cock.

“Sherlock…” he breathed, fingers tightening back into the other’s short hair again, tugging just enough to make Sherlock moan in response as he began to bob, “Oh god…”

Gradually, Sherlock picked up the pace, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside of his prick as he move; teasing the head on the up stroke, suckling softly on the down stroke.

 

It didn’t take very long until John was moaning obscenely and Sherlock was stroking himself, having taken his aching length out from the tight, sweaty confines of his own trousers to start coaxing himself to climax. Less than a minute later, John was calling out the other boy’s name for a final time and spilling a confusing, bitter concoction that was so foul-tasting Sherlock thought for a moment he had pissed himself. The harsh taste, however, was soon forgotten as Sherlock’s hand twisted just right as he stroked himself, sending jolts of pleasure so hard that he saw black spots across his vision through him as he spilled himself onto the dusty floor with a muffled cry of pleasure.

 

“S-Sherlock…” John panted, collapsing forward to take the other’s face in both hands and pull him up for a hard kiss, “What was that?”

“’The climax of wayward pleasure,’” Sherlock replied with a grin, trying to sound astute as he kissed him back.

“Well,” John chuckled, “It was absolutely… Breathtaking.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled, pecking the end of his nose, “Will you lay down with me?”

John nodded blearily, letting himself be lead to lay down in the rough pile of rotting straw at the back of the shed, the mouldy strands sticking to their sweat-shining skin as John rested his head on the younger boy’s shoulder, looking up at the ceiling.

 

“Are we going to go to Hell for this?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“I suppose so,” Sherlock replied, glancing down at him, “I don’t really care anyway. Having to live without you would be worse than anything Satan could throw at me.”

John smiled, nodding. “I suppose so,” he agreed, leaning up to kiss the other softly on the lips. “I… I think I might love you.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long while, watching dust drifting up and around the rafters, weaving and dipping through the air as though they were hundreds of tiny birds drifting through the air. Then he finally said, “I think I love you too,” and kissed John until they were both breathless once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit sort and took so long. I wrote and rewrote it about five or six times with a few different character profiles. It was like knight!Sherlock and King!John, then knight!John and prince!Sherlock, and then stable hand!Sherlock and King!John and at one point they were in some kind of cult which was a bit confusing, but ultimately I didn't like any of them. Hopefully the smut made up for that. The next fic if Spies, so hopefully I'll have some better ideas for that.


	4. Fic 4: Spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to play around with tenses and POVs a bit here. I usually write in past from third, but this is present from first in John's POV. He's probably very OOC, sorry.

“Mr Holmes, I presume?”

“Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

 It must be hard to try and appear calm when you’ve got a gun pressed against your jugular, but he manages it somehow, even going as far as to let his lips pull up into a little smirk. ‘What a wanker,’ is all I can think as I readjust my hold on the grip of my gun and he does the same. The barrel of his Browning is pressed up against my temple so hard I can feel how cold it is on the other side of my skull; dangerous and exciting and even a little bit erotic, in a perverse kind of way. He seems to sense this and winks at me while his tongue flickers out to wet his lips in a way that’s practically pornographic, gliding his tongue across the bottom before he takes it between his teeth, applying soft pressure.

I cough uncomfortably after a moment and he chuckles, pressing his gun harder into the side of my head as he looks away, trying to hide his smile.

“Is something funny?” I snap harshly, sounding all too much like an English teacher telling off a child for giggling at the back of class for my liking. But, when I think about it, it’s sort of fitting, especially if what I’ve heard about the mysterious and illusive Sherlock Holmes is true, especially the part about his temper tantrums and near-homicidal bouts of childish boredom.

“You,” he replied and I struggle to ignore the tingle of arousal that shoots through me. Dear God, I think, the man that oozes sex. I can almost see it seeping from under the collar of his tightly-fitting suit like a fine mist, pooling on the floor before beginning to wind its way up my leg sparking that same sick pleasure in my crotch as it continues up. It’s going to seep in through my mouth and nose and suffocate my brain if I’m not careful, so I exhale sharply, clearing my mind.

“Piss off, pup.” He seems to bristle at the childish name, “The big boys have work to do.”

 I offer him an almost sarcastic wink and he laughs again, this time scornful.

“MI6 is hardly the ‘big boys,’” he says mockingly, “I’m surprised you know how to tie your own shoelaces…”

 I chuckle humourlessly and press my gun harder into the hollow above his collar, from which that erotic smoke is still pouring, making him wince slightly. I like that.

“Who are the ‘big boys’ then?” I ask, trying to keep the venom from my voice. “Scratch that. Who are you even working for? Last I heard, you were some kind of… Freelance agent-for-hire.”

“Consulting,” he corrects me sharply, “I’m a Consulting Agent. When the government is out of his depth, which is always, he consults me.”

“He?” I cock an eyebrow and he scoffs, annoying bastard that he is…

“What did you expect, some kind of patriotic ramble, for Queen and country; that kind of drivel? I’m talking about the head of the British Government here, not the tourist attraction we call the Royal Family…” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“So…” my brow furrows in confusion for a moment, “We’re both working for the government, then?”

He rolls his eyes. “Not the sharpest tool in the box, are you?” he sighs, shaking his head. “The man you’re after is carrying a flash drive; completely irrelevant to your investigations, but crucial to my… Client’s. I’ve been sent to fetch it.”

“Couldn’t I have fetched it for your ‘client’? It would save you all this trouble.”

“I’m afraid the information is for sensitive and competent eyes only. It simply wouldn’t be-”

He’s cut off as I jam the end of my gun under his chin, cocking it with a sharp click.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shook you right now, you arrogant, self-centred little shit.”

He pauses for a long moment, looking thoughtfully almost, before beginning to smirk, which, at this point, has gone from being sex to being really, fucking annoying.

He clears his throat and I can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down under my gun, pressing hard into his skin until he replies in a cool, clear voice, “I’ve been told that I’m a pretty spectacular shag.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which I’m not sure whether he’s being serious of not, before he reaches out to run his fingers down the length of my neck, gun still poised at the side of my head. I try to tug my shoulder away, wincing slightly in pain, but he pulls me straight back, fingers dipping below my collar so that his sickly-sweet heat pours straight onto my bare skin.

“Isn’t that what you want, Dr Watson?” he asks after a long moment, “Or do you prefer to go by Captain still?” His pale fingers close around the chain of my dog tags and I swallow hard, his touch on the metal making me feel queasy until he finally lets them go, allowing them to clatter against my chest in favour of cupping my cheek so he can force me to look up at him.

“Either way, John,” he says with a small smile, the kind that I’d happily slap punch right off of his face, “You’ve been aroused since we me, despite having had a sexual encounter in the last… Four hours?” He pulls the bottom lid of my right eye down and peers at my irises for a long moment.

“Maybe five… Most likely with a woman and most likely as part of your… Interrogations. If it had been someone you had picked up or hired, it would have been a man, am I correct? Of course I am, because that’s what you really want, isn’t it?” He chuckles and I almost growl, pissed off at his cockiness and how fucking accurate it all is. That should be impossible…

The thumb that had pulled down my eyelid slowly moves, teasing along my bottom lip and I hate myself for it, but a slight shiver fizzles down spine.

And then he leans down and he’s kissing me. It’s soft and teasing, with a flick of tongue that’s not enough to loosen the hold on either of our guns, but is just the right amount to coax my lip open, allowing him to dip in softly. Not that it matters, however, as they snap closed as soon as I hear scuffling behind us and a low, German-tinted chuckle fills the darkness.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anyth-”

The bastard’s cocky tone is cut off with a pained cry as I turn, barely needing to aim my gun before a bullet finds his kneecap and he’s sent toppling to the floor with a thump. The fact a bullet even got fired means it’s not as clean as I’d planned for it to be, but that was before Mr I’m-A-Pretty-Spectacular-Shag turned up.

Next to me, the aforementioned prick straightens up, his newly free hand curling back around the grip of his gun as he lowers it again.

“Good shot,” he noted, giving me a short nod before hurrying over to the man on the ground, who has passed out from the pain. Wimp.

“I’m not called John ‘sharp shooter’ Watson for nothing,” I inform him, slipping my phone from my pocket to call HQ as Sherlock searches through the German’s pockets.

“What happened to ‘three continents?’” he replies with a grin as he pulls a memory stick from within the man’s inner pocket. I give him a sharp clout around the back of the head for his troubles.

***

Two hours later and we’re tumbling into his hotel room kissing furiously. I lose my jacket at the front door and we part for an awkward moment to toe off our shoes before he falls backwards on the bed, tugging me down with him. I start tugging his trousers off as soon as I can because, despite his earlier teasing, the poor bastard’s been hard since we began snogging in the cab on the way to the hotel and, I suppose, if the bulge behind the cloth is that big, it mustn’t be comfortable.

“Silk?” I pant softly, arching an eyebrow as I finger the material of his pants.

“Oh god, yes…” he groans in reply, though I’m sure it’s less to my question and more to the way my hand is cupping his cock, palming running up and down the shaft behind the damp, quickly ruining fabric. And then he groans louder and I find that, without realizing it, I’ve dropped to my knees, face buried into the warm of his crotch, the head of his cock leaking salty liquid that seeps through the silk as my tongue presses against it. I also don’t realize that his fingers have laced through the short strands of my hair until he’s tugging on it urgently, panting stop softly under his breath as I coax him towards the edge before pulling away abruptly.

“Oh god, you wanker…”

He moans the words out so loudly that they are practically screamed and I can’t help but laugh, leaning up to kiss him quiet.

“Do you want to fuck me or not, you daft twat?” I murmur, lips making their way down his throat, nipping and sucking a few deep purple marks into his skin. He seems to actually pause to think about it for a moment, so much so I can head the cogs whirring behind those big grey eyes of his, before he finally nods and lets me press him back against the pillows. I kiss him again – dear god, his lips taste like red wind; crisp and heady, as though they’re alcoholic – as I grope around the bedside draw open blindly, searching for condoms and something I can use as lube.

Eventually, my fingers close around a small foil packet and a tube of what I discover to be the hotel’s own-brand lotion. Flicking open the cap, I squeeze some into my hands, finding that it’s actually plenty slick. Once it’s been warmed between my palms, I slip two fingers straight into myself, ignoring the sharp, burning ache of pain that flares up with the stretch before settling into a hot throb at the base of my spine, eyes screwed tightly shut as I focus on coaxing myself open.

Soon (a lot sooner than usual), I deem myself stretched enough, and my eyes flicker open just in time to see Sherlock tugging at his silicone-clad cock, watching my fingers as they work in and out of my body.

“Like what you see?” I ask, my voice breathier and higher pitched than I really want it to be as he settles his hands on my legs, rubbing up and down my thighs.

“Yes…” he replies softly and I flush crimson because he sounds like he means it and his breathing is heavy and his pupils are blown so wide I can barely see his stunning irises as his eyes flicker from my face, to my crotch, to my arse, and it leave me feeling more exposed and naked than I’ve even been in my entire life.

For some reason, I feel like I need to apologize for everything, for bullet wound in my shoulder, for the scars on my chest, for the sheer lack of personal grooming I’ve had below the waist and for the fact I look so old and so broken when compared to him. He’s all creamy expanses of skin, sharp hip bones and deceivingly strong but lean arms and legs, a list that doesn't even being to mention the neatness of his perfectly trimmed pubes and the fullness of his gorgeous, slightly curved, cock.

“John?”

His voice is so soft that I don’t realize he’s spoken until he’s shifting into a sitting position and his arms are wrapped gently around my waist. “Are we going to do this or not? Have I upset you or something?” His words should sound harsh and accusing, as though he’s about to call me frigid, but the fact his hand is caressing my lover back softly tells me he doesn’t mean them to be. It’s just his nature.

Slowly, I shake my head.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss him before he has a moment to reply, then positioning myself to sink down onto his cock so he can’t reply once our lips have parted either.

The moan that erupts from him is magnificent, and that’s not a word I use lightly or often. He sounds like a fucking string orchestra playing the roar of a lion, and I can’t help but join in, he dull press of his cock into my arse sending pulses of sheer pleasure and bright pain through my body before the latter dies down, leaving the former to shake my body shamelessly. 

Slowly, cautiously almost, I begin to move and he moved with me, thrusting up in time with my movements, his hand pressing hard against the centre of my back as we move in sweaty unison, both of us moaning at the top of our lungs; curses, names, noises, anything our sex-fuelled, pleasure-addled brains can get a hold of. I’m so entranced by it all that I don’t notice when his free hand slips down to take a hold of my neglected, wilting length, stroking me back to hardness at a pace so teasingly slow it clashes with the feeling of his cock pounding into my behind, crosswiring my brain and suffocating me with pleasure until I can't take it any longer and I spill across his hand, my release dribbling onto his stomach as a gasp for breath. He follows a few moments later with a howl and I sort of regret insisting on a condom, missing the feeling of come splattering on my insides more than anything as he holds me close, both of us panting heavily in out post-orgasmic haze.

And then few moments later, we topple over onto the bed, still wrapped up tight around each other. I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

The next morning, I wake early to a bright day and an empty bed. Sherlock, however, isn't far; in fact he's the first thing I lay eyes upon, eating cereal out of a small bowl as he sits in completely naked at the table in front of his laptop. The memory stick he acquired last night is sticking out of the side, flashing with a small blue light.

"Morning," I say, yawning softly, but he only grunts in reply, eyes still fixed to the screen. Shuffling out from under the covers, my gait slightly awkward from the ache in my arse, I stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his neck as I read over his shoulder. The text on the screen is all encoded with weird symbols that make my eyes hurt so I quickly give up, instead leaning down to kiss at his neck, lips dusting over the small purple marks that dot his throat, matching the ones on my own skin.

"Do you want to come back to bed for a bit?" I ask, nibbling invitingly at his ear. He says nothing, not even bothering to make an irritated noise to tell me to piss off.

I click my tongue. "Or we could get into the shower. I could do with a good clean..."

I see his eyes gaze, towards the bathroom in the reflection of the screen, before catching my own in the bright glare behind the plastic. For a moment, he looks as though he's not sure whether he's actually tempted by my offer, or just finds me annoying. Eventually, however, he sighs, standing up and reaching down to slip his hand into my own.

"Fine," he sighs, giving me a small squeeze that contrasts with his short tone, "But make it quick."

I grin, but, after a quiet moment, it faulters.

"Will we ever see each other again?" I ask and by the look on his face, I can see he's been thinking the very same question. I don't know why, but it makes me feel quite special.

"I'm sure we will," he replies with a small nod, "Here and there."

I hum in agreement. "But, uh, you know, if you're ever looking for somewhere to stay in London, I have a little flat in the centre of town. Only if you can't find anywhere else, of course..."

I shift awkwardly on my feet and he smiles, leaning down to kiss me.

"That sounds lovely," he says softly, reaching up to let his fingers catch the chain about my neck, running his thumb over the tags themselves. Oddly, for the first time since I returned from the front, the sight of someone else touched them doesn't make me feel sick, doesn't make my stomach churn or make my palms become clammy and cold. Slowly, his fingers move to undo the clasp at the back, allowing the chain to fall loosely into the palm of his hand, which then moves to take mine again.

"Come, Captain, before the water gets cold..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes (especially at the end) and that this is so late. I wrote a fic for a friend thinking this was finished and them porn came along and made me late...  
> Also, apologies for dodgy editing.


	5. Fic 5: School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> Apologies for not getting this up sooner. I was busy with things like revision for my French GCSE, writer's black and throwing up for a few days.
> 
> This chapter is written through strictly speech - not through dialogue, but speech.
> 
> The spacing doesn't make sense if you read it as straight-out dialogue. Each comma, full-stop, ellipsis and space is important, you have to stop and think with the character, have a clear voice in your head for them.  
> Try and read it almost like an radio play, which is sort of what it was. Cock by Mike Bartlett, it has Andrew Scott, Ben Whishaw and Katherine Parkinson in and wow. Just go listen to it.

**“Does he make you hard?”**

“Go away, Mary.”

**“Does he make your cock**

**_twitch_ ** **?”**

“You have to leave me alone now, Mary…”

**“Did he make you _moan_ , Johnny?”**

“Mary-”

**“I bet it felt really nice up your arse, didn’t it, John? I bet that freak’s _cock_**

**felt _nice_**

**up your _arse._ ”                           **

“I didn’t-”

**“You didn’t what? You didn’t let him fuck you? ‘Cause it doesn’t count if you’re on top, does it? It must be just like screwing a girl…**

**But it’s not!**

**Because you cheated on me.**

**With a boy.**

**With a _freak_.**

**With Sherlock Holmes!”**

“I didn’t cheat on you, Mary, we weren’t-”

**“Really? Because it fucking looks like it from where I’m standing.**

**Do you even know what cheating means, John?”**

“I know what cheating means, Mary, just listen-”

**“It means you’re fucking someone,**

**and you tell them you _love them_ and your think they’re _the one_**

****

**and then you and screw someone else behind their back.**

**You lie to them.**

**You. Are. A. Liar. John Watson.”**

“I’m not a liar.”

**“You are.”**

“I’m _not_.”

**“You _are!_ ”**

“ _I’m not a fucking liar!_ ”

 

 

 

 

**“Finally.”**

“What?”

**“Some words.”**

 

“What?”

**“Words.**

**You must be best friends with words, John, because they bend**

**over**

**backwards for you. They spew out of your mouth in this… This vomit of lies and _bullshit_ , and yet everyone fucking loves you.**

**I don’t get it.**

**Your mind isn’t made up of coherent thoughts, John, and yet you’ve _somehow_ woven this tail of stability around yourself. And it’s so tight that no-one can see what a _fucking mess you are_ underneath and everyone loves you.**

**You’re ‘rugby captain’ and ‘head of this club’ and ‘head of that group’ and all the little girls get their panties all wet for you because you’re a**

**perfect**

**pin-up**

**poster boy for**

**perfection who’s so _modest_ and _humble_ and so _sweet_ and love to _pet the fucking puppies._**

****

**You don’t work.**

**You _shouldn’t work._**

**Your entire existence is like a genetic mutation that should have died with the fucking dinosaurs! You don’t run right.**

**You could get shot and you’d come back better than ever.**

**You could get hit by a bus and you’d say that you enjoyed the fucking experience. That’s not how people work, John, don’t you see?**

**You’re… You’re just…**

**Wrong.”**

“I didn’t fuck him.”

**“I know. You said.”**

“I love him.”

**“No. You don’t.”**

“You don’t know that.”

**“Yes I do.”**

“No, Mary, you don’t. You think you know _everything_. But you don’t.”

**“I know you.”**

“No, you don’t.”

**“I do.”**

“You think you know how I _feel_.”

**“I do.”**

“You think you know how I _think?_ ”

**“I do.”**

“ _How? How do I think?_ ”

**“You… You think like a child.”**

“Like a child?”

**“Yes. Like a child.”**

“Is that it?”

**“You run into danger. You have no sense of when the fuck to stop yourself.”**

“Oh there’s more. Brilliant…”

**“And you expect everyone to clean up all the shit that you leave behind you.**

**It’s not healthy, John. You can’t have a relationship with someone like that. You can’t have a relationship where everything they do isn’t good enough and isn’t fun enough and isn’t…**

**_Freak_ ** **enough.**

**Maybe you _should_ be with him…”**

“I want to be with him.”

**“And that’s fine.”**

“I know it is.”

**“But you still cheated on me.”**

“ _You_ told me you hated me. _You_ said we were breaking up.”

**“I was just angry.”**

“No, Mary. You put _that_ in the middle of us. You split the floor between us like some fucking _chasm_ that we were never going to get over.”

**“I know I did…”**

“And you don’t care?”

 

 

 

**“I’m sorry.”**

“I’m leaving.”

**“Kiss me? Please?”**

“I can’t.”

**“I still love you, John. You’re broken and wrong, but I still love you.”**

“No you don’t.”

**“I do.”**

“We can’t see each other again.”

**“I know.”**

“That’s…

 

 

Sad.”

**“It is.”**

“I love him.”

**“You do.”**

*******

“J-John…”

“Sorry. I-I should have asked first…”

“No. No, it’s fine…

Do it again.”

“Like that?”

“A bit tighter…

A-Ah!”

“I’m sorry!”

“No. It’s okay. Too tight.”

“Sorry.”

 

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Apologising.”

“Sorry.”

“ _John._ ”

“I’m messing with you. Now,

how are we doing this?”

“On the bed?”

“Can I take my trousers off first?”

“Of course.”

“We’re a bit mismatched.”

“We are…”

“You naked from the waist down, and I’m naked from the waist up, that’s…

Odd.”

 

 

 

“You don’t want to do this.”

“No, I do

 

I do…”

“Are you sure?

You don’t sound too sure.”

“I’m sure.

Positive.

One hundred percent.”

“Alright. Take off your trousers then.”

“Alright.

 

 

 

Can you do it for me?”

“Jesus…”

“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous! I’ve never done this before, not like this, I’ve never…”

“You’ve never taken it up the arse?”

“Neither have you.”

“And yet I still know more about it than you do.

Curious.

Now, come here and kiss me while I do this.

Better?”

“Better.”

“Good.”

“Good…

 

 

Oh.”

“What?”

“I’m hard.”

“Of course you’re hard. You always get hard around me. You’ve been hard around me almost constantly for the past three weeks.”

“I know, I just…”

“You sound surprised.

Come sit on my lap. I’ll touch it.”

“Will you

 

do the thing?”

“The thing…

Oh.

I can if you want. There’s not much left to deduce anymore. I know it so well…”

“Just

please.

For me.”

“Alright.

For you.

Sit down, just like that.”

“One finger at a time.”

“One finger at a time…”

“Slowly.”

“Slowly…”

“Oh god…”

“I haven’t even touched it yet.”

“I know but you’re going to. And you’re a boy. You’re a boy and gorgeous and exciting and Sherlock and…

And…”

“A freak?”

“No!

Just

 

different.

But I like that. It’s interesting and new and-

A-Ah! Oh god!”

“It’s just my finger, John.”

“I know!

 

I know…”

 

“Next one?”

“God yes…”

 

 

 

“You kiss better when you’re aroused. It’s more fluid, more

heated.

There goes the next one. That’s three. One more.”

“One more… God…”

“And the thumb.”

“Thumb…”

“I can’t believe I’ve reduced a medical student to a quivering mess, just by touching your cock. You lot are usually so

mouthy.”

“Oi. I’ll have you know that-

 

Oh god.”

“See?”

“You’re stroking my cock.”

“I am.”

“Oh god, your fingers, look at them;

 

all four

and a thumb.

They’re more slender than hers, somehow. Longer too. You’re longer than her

in lots of ways, I suppose.”

“John.”

“And you don’t have boobs. I thought I’d miss the boobs, in the foreplay, you know? But I don’t. All I want to do is kiss you and touch your skin because it’s so _warm_ and your lips taste _so good_ and your cock feels so nice to touch, ‘cause it’s got this silkiness that I can’t even describe because it’s not like my cock

and-

 

Jesus! What are you doing with your finger?”

“I’m putting it in your arse to shut you up.”

“My arse…”

“Yes now be quiet.”

         

 

 

“Oh lord… Oh fuck…”

“Is it okay?”

“Christ, it’s… Wow.

Jesus.

Shit.

Fuck.”

“Does it hurt?”

“N-No not really.

I… I want to clench around it.

 

 _Should_ I clench around it?”

“If you want.”

“Don’t let me hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, just do it.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Good?”

“Oh, fuck.”

“You’re very strong. That… A tight squeeze…

God.”

“Oh god, don’t move it!

That hurts. That hurts. That hurts.

O-Oh god…”

“I need to put the second one in, John.”

“N-No you don’t. Just stay like this

 

forever.

This is good.”

 

“You need the second one or my cock won’t fit.”

“Your cock?”

“Yes, my cock. It’s getting more than a little bit impatient.”

“Oh god, it is.

You’re still hard.”

“Of course I am. I have you

_ writhing _ in my lap. What else is it meant to be?”

“I thought you’d get bored of me…”

“I very much doubt that.

Come here.”

“It twitches when you kiss me.”

“So does yours.”

“Touché.

Ah! Don’t move it, I said!”

“Them.”

“What?”

“Them. There’s two fingers inside you.”

“T-Two?”

“You were distracted. I took my chance.”

“Arse.”

“I know.

Let me just

spread them out a bit…”

“Ooooh…”

“You purred.”

“W-What was that?”

“You sound like a kitten. A little tiny kitten…”

“S-Sherlock.”

“What?”

“What was that… Thing

up there.”

“Oh, that?

Prostate, probably, or tissue near it. You should know all about that.”

“Oh.”

“Again?”

“Oh god, yes…”

 

“There?”

“U-Up.”

“There?”

“Just a bit-

O-o-o-oh!”

“John…”

“Oh…”

“John.”

“Uh…”

“John!”

“What?”

 

 

“I need to fuck you.

Quite desperately.”

“Alright.

Yes…

Condom?”

“In the draw.

Your hands are shaking…

Look, give it here. You can’t open it if you’re all shaky.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.”

“No, give it to me.”

“I’m fine!”

 

 

 

“You ripped it.”

“No.

 _You_ ripped it.”

“I did not! You’re the one holding it. I’ve got two fingers up your arse.”

“Jesus, don’t remind me…”

 

“We’ll have to go without.”

“What? No!”

“Have you always used a condom in the past?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“And I’m a virgin. We’ll be fine.”

“You know, you’re seriously not the blushing virgin with flowing golden locks I’ve been fantasising about all my life…”

“Well, I do have a penis…”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t. You’re just about to sit on it.”

“Jesus, I am, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be a baby. Look,

I’m taking my fingers out…”

“Oooh…”

“And lifting you up…

And pressing you down onto- Oh…”

“Oh!”

“There goes the…

Head.”

“Fuck.”

“And a bit more.”

“Sherlock, st-stop.”

“Just a little bit more. Lord…”

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“I said stop! It really

fucking

hurts!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s all in.”

“Oh.”

“Is it okay?”

“Yeah, just

 

big.”

“You’re flattering me.”

“No I’m not, it’s…

 

Oh god.”

“Uhhhhh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“D-Do that again.”

“C-Clench?”

“Yes.

Ooooh! Fuck…”

“Shit.

Ow.

You moved.”

“Sorry… Involuntary thrust, I’ll go slower.”

“Just… Just give me a second…”

 

“You look gorgeous like this.

I should take a picture.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Kiss me?”

“Fine…

 

 

 

Ah!”

“Sorry, sorry, I did it again. You’re just so

tight and

hot and

inviting, I…

I need to. Please.”

“Okay. But _slowly_.”

“Yes, yes, I know, just be quiet and let me concentrate.

I’ll put my

hands on your hips and

lift you up

slowly.”

“Ooh…”

“And then, pull you back down to-

Oh god.

Oh fuck.”

“Sherlock…”

“Use your knees

just a bit.”

“Okay, okay, just

up.

Christ…

 

And down.

Uh.”

“Just like that.

Oh god, you feel so good…”

“Harder.”

“Pardon?”

“Fuck me harder.

And faster.

Please.”

“Okay, okay.

Like,

Uh!

Like that?”

“Oh god, yeah…

More.”

“Faster?”

“Yeah. Yeah…

 

 _Oh god!_ ”

“I can feel you moaning.”

“What?”

“When I kiss

Your

neck

like

this.

I can feel it.”

“If you kiss my lips, you can taste them.”

“Really?”

“No, you daft twat.”

“Should I do it anyway?”

“Yeah… Yeah, do it anyway…

 

 

Ahh! O-o-o-oh.

There.

Again.”

“Where?”

“U-Up.”

“Here?”

“N-No, back a bit.”

“I’ve lost it.”

“It doesn’t matter, just move for fuck sake.”

 

“Uh…”

“Jesus…”

 

 

 

“Oh yes…”

“Oh god…”

 

 

“John…”

“S-Sherlock.”

 

“Your lips…”

“Your hands…”

 

“Your arse…”

“Your cock…

 

 

 

I love you.”

 

“P-Pardon?”

“I… I can’t wait to… Fuck you.

I bet you’re tighter than I am.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course…

Stop that.”

“What?”

“Stop touching yourself

I want to do it.”

“O-Okay…”

“Four fingers.”

“And a thumb…

Uh! Yes!”

“Move faster, for god sake.

You’re falling out of time.”

“Yes, sorry…

Oh god, your hands…

I think

Sherlock…”

“Do it.”

“On your hand?”

“Yes. Mm, fuck…

It’ll be dirty.”

“So dirty…”

“And intimate.”

“Intimate…”

“And sexy.”

“Fuck, it’ll be sexy.”

“Come for me, John.

I want to see it.”

“Oh…

 

Oh fuck.

 

Fuck.

 

A-a-ah!”

 

 

“Oh, John…”

“Sh… Sher… Lock…”

“Look at it.

It’s all over me. 

You came so hard…”

“I think I blacked out a little…

 

Why are you stopping?”

“We’re done. You’ve reached climax.”

“ _You_ haven’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I want you to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty.

And intimate.

And sexy.”

“Oh…”

“And I want to feel you lose control inside of me…”

 

“Don’t feed me her lines, John.”

 

 

“Sorry. Habit.

Just… Think about me coming.

I’ll clench on you again, look.”

 

“O-Oh.”

“You can fuck me still, I won’t break.

 

Like that.

Yeah, g-good boy.”

“John…”

“Come on, harder!

I want you to fuck me

so hard that I’ll still be loose for you in the morning.

 

I’ll

fit

you

like

a

glove.”

“U-Uh… Oh…”

“Yeah, like that. Just… Fuck.

Good boy. My good boy, aren’t you, Sherlock?

In the morning, I’ll cover you with enough marks to spell out

my name. You’ll be bruised from head to toe by my teeth and

hands and lips. You’ll have love-bites so high up on your neck,

you can’t hide them, and everyone will see that you’re mine.”

“Yes… O-Oh yes.”

“They’ll see that I have a boyfriend

and you got laid

and I took it up the arse

and you were the one who fucked me so hard that I blacked out.”

“John…”

“Yes?”

“Mmmm… Kiss me.

Ah! A-Ah, o-o-o-oh John!”

“Sherlock… Oh, fuck that feels good…”

“So tight… So hot...

I…

I…

I…”

 

“It’s okay, it’s alright. I’ve got you.

 

Just lie down.

I’m going to slide off, just lie down under the covers.

 

There’s a good boy…”

“Oh my god…”

“Yeah, the first time is the hardest, love.”

“That was… A lot better than expected.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. I thought it would be

quick and

dull.

That was…”

“Mind-blowing? Spectacular? Magnificent?”

“Something like that, yes…”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting paper. I need to write this down.

Observations.

Data.

It’s all important.”

“Can’t you do that in a minute? I was in the middle of cuddling you.”

 

 

“Fine…”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

“You have a scar on your left leg.”

“What?”

“I’m deducing you.”

“Oh.”

“Do you not want me to anymore?”

“No, no, go ahead…”

“Alright.

You have a scar on your left leg. It looks like you injured a leg when you were young, maybe only a small fracture, not enough to stop you playing rugby now. You’re very good at it, by the way.”

“You’ve watched me play?”

“Of course I have, now, hush.

You also have some more recent injuries.

There’s scars on your chest from various bumps and scratches over the years, but there’s also a single large one running from your collarbone to your shoulder. It’s very clean, almost like a knife-wound…”

“You noticed.”

“Of course I did.

You were stabbed a few years ago

Five, maybe six?”

“Six…”

“The attacker was left-handed and came at you from the front. He was unprepared, a blind, random attack by someone who didn’t know the first thing about knives. But you knocked him out.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I did…”

“There’s another scar on your stomach, showing you’ve have surgery. An appendectomy if I’m not mistaken, though you’re a bit young for it.”

“Mmm…”

 

“Other than scars, I can tell you that you had toast for breakfast this morning, changed your shampoo a week ago and declared your love for me halfway through us fucking just now…”

And you’re also asleep…

I’ll just tug the covers up a bit, make sure you’re warm…

You’re very cuddly.

I like that.

Look at you there, all nuzzled up against my chest like a little kitten. I don’t usually do touching, you know.

Boring.

Unnecessary.

Uncomfortable.

But you’re… Nice.

You’re plain. Very plain.

But you’re not boring. Not to me.

You’ll never be boring to me, John Watson…

Never.”


	6. Fic 6: Futuristic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took like a month to get up. I had such bag writer's block so I skipped the two that I couldn't write for and did this instead. This is a Danger Days AU but... Not a very good one. Very loose.

30 Day OTP Challenge - Day 8: Futuristic

 

The dry desert heat squeezes in through the cracks in the door and walls, along with the rattlers and scorpions, and - idly, on a thought that's barely there - John almost wishes he was in Batt City. At least they have air conditioning. It's almost worth the brainwashing, he decides, his nose wrinkling in mild disgust as he sips his lukewarm scotch, especially in this heat.

 

The beat up clock at the end of the bar makes a small noise, probably what used to be a beep, and John glances up, groaning quietly when he realizes it's only just turned 1 pm. He still has about three hours to kill until the sun begins to cool and he can step outside without becoming a puddle of goo the moment the sole of his shoe touches the sandy desert floor, so he'll have to waste it somehow.

Downing the end of his drink, he grabs his jacket from where it's slung haphazardly over the back of his chair, deciding there's not much else for him to do but spend the next few hours in his room, curled up on the small cot as he makes a vain attempt at sleep.

 

Which is when a tongue is shoved, rather roughly, down his throat.

 

At first John splutters, barely able to take in a gasp of breath between the humidity clinging to the air and the heat of the tongue in his mouth, but when his mind finally catches up enough to allow his eyes to snap open his gaze it met by one of crystalline blue that's all too familiar and he begins to relax into the kiss - which is really far too sloppy and unpractised to be called anything but a licking of mouths. Gradually he coaxes it into something more controlled, easing the other away slowly so he can look him straight in the eye, shaking his head.

 

"Sherlock Holmes, you fucker..."

 

A rich, earthy chuckle is emitted deep from the chest of the man in front of him, who is now perches carefully on the edge of John's lap, and it's like a buck of cold water over him; refreshing and cool, a blissful oasis in the stifling heat of the endless desert.

"Did you miss me?" asks the voice that accompanies the chuckle as Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, his jaw clenching and relaxing rhythmically behind the tight pull of his lips.

"Yeah, of course," John nods, then frowns slightly. "Are... Are you chewing gum?"

Sherlock's smile widens and he opens his mouth, pressing the strip of white against his teeth. John grimaces, wrinkling his nose.

"You know they put their chemical stuff in that shit, don't you?" he says, "The mind-control stuff."

John knows, rationally, that there probably isn't any 'mind-control stuff' in the BL/ind gum, but he's a firm believer that you can never be too careful.

 

Sherlock simply shakes his head, his smile growing into a grin that begins to grate of John's nerves just a little.

"Not this stuff," he declares, puffing his chest out like a proud peacock.

"How can you be so sure?"

"It's the big boss' gum."

"It's... What?"

"The big boss. Moriarty. I snuck in and took it from his desk."

There's a long pause. John clicks his tongue.

" _You_ were in Batt City?"" he asks.

"Yes."

"And you snuck into Moriarty's office?""

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, John, I did. Please at least try to keep up, I know it's difficult for you but-"

"Do you even _realize_ what would have happened if you'd been caught?"

 

Sherlock lets out a long huff of breath and looks away, his peacock chest deflating as he folded his arms and looked away with a small creak from the dry leather of his jacket as it was pulled across his lithe form.

"I don't 'get caught,'" he bites back sharply, "And I didn't come here to be mothered, either, I just need a place to sleep. Can I use you bed?"

John gives him a long look, trying to decided whether it would be worth saying no purely on principal. Finally the ruffled knots in Sherlock's hair and the dark bags under his eyes decide for him and he sighs.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching into his jacket pocket to dig out his keys, "It's upstairs on the left."

He drops the bar's ancient key-chain into the other's waiting palm and watches as he disappears upstairs in a flurry of leather and inky curls, noting the way his sweat-dampened skin makes his clothes cling to him just that little bit tighter with a small, wanton frown.

 

They've been... On and off casually for a few weeks, ever since they'd met on two separate jobs in Batt City that John doesn't really remember. No-one outside the zones wants anything but a casual fuck here and there, not anymore. No-one but John.

He can't help but think about Sherlock, especially when he's in bed at night, warm under the the covers despite the fingers of chilling air that creep through the window. It's Sherlock who he thinks about then, who he imagines touching him slowly all over, fucking him hard and deep into the mattress as they both shudder with joint ecstasy, their heavy breaths filling the far corners of John's imagination as his own echo about the darkness of his small room, heat blistering across his sweat-covered skin.

 

And it's this neediness, this ache for contact and closeness that niggles through his chest every time he thinks of those bright eyes and soft lips that forces John to grab his jacket and follow the madman up the stairs to where he is sat on the edge of the bed waiting, his clothes already in a small pile at the end of the bed. Even though it's far too hot for sex, their need to be pressed up against one another, skin on skin, makes this inevitable. John's sweat-sticky clothes are quickly peeled from his body and dumped lazily on the floor, the tangled mess being completely forgotten as the bodies the garments had been prised were explored lazily under the covers, hands roaming over planes and dips and bumps, smoothing away the sweat.

Sherlock’s hands haven’t even finished their second tour of John’s well-defined chest muscles when they begin to slowly grow limp. John drifts away into fitful sleep just a few moments later.

 

***

 

Guns.

The electric buzz of each shot fired at him echoes in John’s ears with uncomfortable clarity and the feeling of them getting closer, so close some barely skim his jacket, makes his heart skip and jump with terrified shudders as adrenaline pumps thick through his veins, thicker than his blood.

 

He’s fucked up. Dear god, he’s fucked up.

A routine job, just to get some supplies, that’s all it was meant to be. They’ve done it a million times before. Why the hell did he not see the trip-wire? Why the hell did he not see the alarm?

He reaches out blindly for his sister’s hand, tugging her along faster. Come on. Faster. Just get to the car. We’re almost safe, I swear, we’re almost-

 

***

 

John jolts awake with a whimpering cry, the sound his sister’s dying screams still ringing in his ears as his blood runs cold and his stomach churns. His own scream rips out of his throat with gasping claws when he sees that face, the one that had pulled him away from his sister’s motionless body and dead eyes and towards the waiting car. It’s looming over him, so close he can smell the mixture of minty gum and cigarette smoke on his breath, see every fleck of silver and gold within each finely woven iris and feel where their chests press together; bare, sweaty skin is pressed against bare, sweaty skin.

 

“John…”

His voice is impossibly soft.

“It’s alright…”

John tares his gaze away from him to look around the dark room, eyes flickering from wall to wall frantically, his body shaking in panicked tremors.

“I’ve got you now…”

It takes him a while but John slowly begins to register that he’s naked and covered in sweat, his body pressed up against that of the man next to him as fingers brush up and down his neck and spine, coursing through his hair.

 

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock leans forwards and presses his lips to John’s forehead.

“I’m here, John,” he replied gently, “It’s alright. I’m here.”

John nods and buries his nose in the other’s chest as his tears flow fast and free down his cheeks, leaving sticky, damp paths in their wake. Sherlock's hands continue to run gently up and down the other's back in slow, soothing circles, calming him until his eyes are dry and his sobs die down into small hiccups, almost half and hour later.

 

For a long time, no-one speaks, until Sherlock finally presses his lips to John's temple and murmurs, "Come with me," beginning to ease him to his feet. They scramble to find their clothes in the darkness and blindly fumble their way down the stairs and through the back door, freezing night air making them gasp and wince. Without a word, Sherlock grabs John's hand and pulls him towards a large shape covered in a blue tarpaulin.

"What's that?" John asks, looking apprehensive.

Sherlock grins and drops his hand, pulling away the sheet with a sharp flick of his wrist to reveal...

 

A motorbike. A normal, run-of-the-mill, very un-Sherlockian motorbike.

"Oh."

Sherlock frowns. "You don't like it?"

"No, It just... Wasn't what I expected," John shrugs. "Is it safe?"

"Of course," Sherlock encourages, "Come on."

John pauses a moment before letting out a sigh, taking the other man's hand and climbing onto the machine behind him. Ancient plastic and rusty metal creaks beneath their joint weight but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, so John brushes it off too, wrapping his arms around Sherlock waist tight as the engine kicks into life. It's low purr rips through the quite desert night with a jagged excitement that John just drinks in, his eyes growing wide. He barely has time to bury his face between the madman's shoulder blades before they're moving, air whipping past them fast enough to sting their skin, wet their eyes and blur the world around them into a vague sense of depth, distance and direction that dulls their senses until the details are lost to them and all they can this is _breathe_.

_Faster._

_Breathe._

_More._

_Breathe._

_Engine._

_Breathe._

_Air._

_Breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, quick note;  
> I've kind of cheated with the next day too and I've changed it to sci-fi instead of aliens.


End file.
